


My Love

by arrhythmic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7320322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrhythmic/pseuds/arrhythmic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He once said that he had only ever loved one woman his entire life. He wondered now, lurking in the background, seemingly worlds away from her, when that had ceased to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Creepyshippers asked for a fic following the Season 6 finale. I live to serve. Follows show canon because yes, my fellow shippers, our ship is half-canon now. It's been a glorious season.

The men were much too jolly as they raised their glasses victoriously, and Petyr relished the look of unease on Jon Snow’s face, strikingly out of place amidst the cheer. He settled deeper into the shadows, unnecessary as it were as all eyes in the room were fixed on the supposed _hero_ of the battle. As he had suspected, the bastard was unfit to rule, and, more importantly, did not desire to either. A man without ambition was certainly not a dangerous one.

Still, the rabble roared on, ever the blind fools, and he thanked them for their idiocy. It was their ill-considered cheers that would make _her_ blue eyes turn towards him again—he was certain of it. She was seated where she belonged, he thought: at the front of the room, above the masses, lovely yet unattainable. How many knights had their hearts pounding in their chests as they gazed upon her at this very moment?

He once said that he had only ever loved one woman his entire life. He wondered now, lurking in the background, seemingly worlds away from her, when that had ceased to be true.

He recalled the first time he laid eyes on her.

The first thing he saw was that Tully red in her hair, before he took in the endearing look of trepidation on her face as he approached her. He enjoyed watching her go pale with fear as he whispered horror stories of the Hound and the Mountain into her ear, naïve child that she was. Cat read fairytales to him once, and he confessed he felt a sick sort of pleasure from making her daughter squirm from a tale far more twisted. He wanted to take a bit of her innocence away from her, the way her mother took his.

No. It wasn’t then.

Jon was making some sort of speech now, to pacify the animosity between the lords and the wildlings. Petyr pitied him—he would pity any Stark in his situation, really. The Starks tended to be far more adept at using their swords than diplomacy. Though, she had turned out to be quite the exception. He had taught her well, after all, and even now she carried herself in dignified grace as she listened to her bastard brother ramble on.

He remembered the first time he truly had her in his grasp, the day he framed her husband for Joffrey’s murder. He had pulled her onto his ship with his own two hands, hands later used to silence her scream when he gave Dontos payment in the form of an arrow to the face. “Money buys a man's silence for some time,” he taught her then. “A bolt in the heart buys it forever.” She was still shivering against him when he led her away with an arm around her shoulders, so fragile and so desperate. “We’re all liars here,” she had answered obediently when he asked her to recite his first lesson. He wondered, then, if a young Cat would have learned so quickly.

No, it wasn’t then, either.

Petyr’s attention drifted back and forth between his memories and the speeches being delivered at the moment. Jon was going off about impending storms now, and a little girl—the feisty Lady of House Mormont, according to his informants—was forced to defend him. If only the bastard was half as commanding as she was, Petyr thought to himself with amusement. Even Sansa wore a slight grin of approval on her lips as the Mormont girl continued. “He’s my king,” she declared with conviction. “From this day, until his last day.” Sansa wasn’t smiling at her anymore, not after that. _A poor choice for a king,_ thought Petyr. But at the very least her commanding words had softened the other voices in the room, and he was satisfied that he could return to his musings.

He had the answer now, he was almost certain. It _must_ have been at the Eyrie. Certainly, that was the moment. More than anything, he remembered the snow. The way it had caught in her hair, the way the delicate flakes kissed the curve of her lashes. The way her face was twisted in sorrow as she stood by her desperate recreation of Winterfell, smashed beyond recognition. She dreamed no longer of knights and ladies. She only dreamed of returning to her home, one she thought she would never see again. A lot truly could happen between now and never. He told her then, that she was more beautiful than her mother ever was—because she was. It was a beauty tempered by tragedy, and it overwhelmed him as he kissed her, tangling his fingers in that lovely copper hair.

No. Not yet; it wasn’t then either.

He paid for his impulsivity—he had risked everything he had worked for to feel her lips against his, and he risked it again when he murdered his wife without batting an eye. He had never felt such rage as when he saw Sansa forced onto on her knees, dangling between life and death. “I have only ever loved one woman, my entire life. One woman.” When he said those words that day, he had still meant them. So again, he was without an answer.

He chuckled in spite of himself.

It suddenly came into his mind now, the lies she had so cleverly weaved the day after. How she had waltzed into that room, with her lips quivering and her eyes so watery even _he_ had almost believed her grief. Petyr would never forget the looks on the faces of the Lords of the Vale as a little girl danced circles around them with her tricks.

 _Ah,_ he thought. _Ah; so it was then_. The realization came with the memory, an epiphany, that in hindsight, he might have been aware of all along. _Then it was_.

Lord Manderly had risen to his feet now, with some heartfelt speech announcing that it was Jon who had avenged the Red Wedding, that it was Jon who was the White Wolf, that he was the _King in the North_ , even dropping to one knee as his grand finale. The next lord followed, Lord Glover it was, who boldly declared he would stand behind _Jon Snow._

 _What a shame, my dear,_ Petyr thought to himself idly, watching her. Perhaps only he could detect how flustered she was, how her nerves were unraveling in the moment. Mixed with—yes, unmistakable irritation. It was the icing on top of the cake when the men rose to their feet and hoisted their swords up and down in the air like children, their little chant bringing even Jon Snow to his feet. The bastard spared Sansa a furtive glance—uncertain even now, even with a room full of men proclaiming him their king at the top of their lungs _._ He watched her give her brother a soft smile. _Perfect_ , Petyr mused. A perfect little smile.

It was the same talent for deception that had brought the Vale lords to her mercy. There were no songs then, no fairytales, no princes nor heroes. She resembled Cat when she was a child, when he had first laid eyes on her. But she wasn’t a child any longer. When her eyes met with his that day in the Vale, hers were wet with false tears, and his were similarly glimmering with deceitful contrition. He knew then that she had become a woman far more intriguing than her mother could have ever hoped to be. 

Yes, it must’ve been then that Petyr Baelish fell in love for a second time.

_The past is gone for good._

Satisfied with his answer, he focused his attention back on the raucous scene in front of him, Jon now on his feet as the crowd continued their rallying call. Petyr was pleased to find that she had held her smile even amidst the chanting.

Their eyes met.

He wondered if she could read him, if she saw his craving for her deep inside. It was their little secret, and not a single knight nor wilding, nor even a bastard named Snow could sense it. Not even when it was right beneath their noses.

Blood coursed through his veins when he saw her gaze darken with his, when he felt her thoughts mirror his own, when desire welled in the depths of her eyes.

He knew she could see it then, that sinful picture in his mind. A pretty picture indeed.

_My future._

She was nothing like her mother, not anymore. She was better. She was his, or even if she wasn’t yet, she would be soon—he would make sure of it.

_My love._

She looked away from Jon, her smile faltering. His picture grew a little clearer, and his pulse quickened with anticipation.

_My everything._


End file.
